


My Knight In Shining Armour

by neverlandlumos



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:16:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverlandlumos/pseuds/neverlandlumos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Thorin and Dwalin loved each other. Needed each other. Relied on each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Knight In Shining Armour

*

**Age 10**

He can no longer ignore it. His father’s greed is poisoning his mind, its venom slowly affecting him, turning him unpredictable and sometimes unresponsive. Thrain worries over his father’s health, growing uneasy as the years go by. He warily peers down to the lower floors, eyeing the gold stacked about. Thrain has suggested they hide their gold, protect the wealth of the Durin and their people, but his father delays with a wave of the hand. Thror turns away from his son with distant eyes.

Thrain bends to pick Thorin up with a grunt, adjusting the boy to rest on his hip. Thorin giggles happily and pulls on Thrain’s hair as his father hoists him up. Still a baby faced boy of ten, he can easily hoist Thorin to his side, and Thorin adores being carried around, much to his father’s dismay.

“Did you want to see Dwalin?” Thrain asks, and gives his son a small smile when Thorin’s eyes grow wild in his excitement, nodding enthusiastically. Thrain shoots a longing look at his father’s retreating back, attempting to ignore the worry stirring in his chest. Thorin releases a chuckle and pulls his father’s ear for attention. Thrain grabs Thorin’s hands and forces them to wind around his neck as he walks out of the kingdom and out to the roads that lead to the marketplace.

Dwarves whisper excitedly upon recognising them, dipping their heads or bowing as they walk past. Thrain raises a hand, allowing them to resume their duties. Thorin smiles happily in his father’s arms, waving at everyone they pass, and Thrain cannot help but to chuckle at his son’s behaviour. Several of the older dwarves, grandmothers most likely, coo endearments to Thorin, who smiles shyly against Thrain’s neck, cheeks growing a slight pink.

Thorin wriggles out of his grasp when they reach the blacksmith, and is only halted by Thrain grasping a handful of his son’s shirt to keep him still. “It is hot and dangerous inside for a young dwarf, Thorin. How many times do I have to tell you this?” Thrain scolds, but walks ahead anyway, a heavy hand guiding Thorin inside.

“Thrain! How good it is to see you,” Fundin says, quickly bumping his forehead to his own. Thrain nods in greeting once he pulls back, and Fundin bends to address Thorin, ruffling the young dwarf’s hair with an affectionate smile. He stands and offers them to the back room, where Dwalin seems to be, pointing to various warcraft and blacksmith pieces that his workers are currently forging. Thorin peers up at his father with exaggerated boredom.

“Dwalin!” Thorin calls, upon hearing his friend’s loud voice and rushes into the back room. Thrain follows slowly, raising a hand in a small wave to Balin and Dwalin. Balin leaves his brother and Thorin to resume drawing at the table several metres away from them. Dwalin and Thorin seem unfazed, continuing to use small blocks of wood to build what appears to be a tower.

“I sense you are worried about something,” Fundin says, offering him a glass of mead.

Thrain sighs. “It involves my father. His well-being.”

Fundin nods and grimaces. “There is a lot of gold resting in those halls. I would be worried if you yourself were not concerned. Have you attempted to talk to him?” His eyes flicker from Thrain to the boys who cheer loudly at their accomplishment: a lopsided tower that would fall if a slight breeze hit it. The fathers clap at their sons expense, chuckling when the tower falls.

Thrain takes a sip of mead. Fundin sniggers when Thorin accidentally hits Dwalin in the lip with a block, though both their eyebrows raise to the hairline when Thorin leans over and kisses Dwalin on the mouth. It’s a lingering peck, a kiss to make it feel better, but Thrain nearly faints at his sons brave actions. Thorin pulls back with a smile and Dwalin resumes sorting his blocks without a fuss.

Fundin turns to him slowly, an astonished look on his face. “They, uh… certainly start young, now, aye?”

Thrain sighs. “Suppose. True love blossoms from a young age, Fundin.”

“Aye.”

 

**Age 24**

Thorin can barely believe the events that have just recently occurred. A dragon, a fucking dragon, just destroyed their home of Erebor and has reclaimed the gold for himself. Dwarves died to protect their families, dwarves have died trying to flee, and Thorin can barely believe it. They walk hard, and travel long, and an ever present and lingering darkness falls upon his family. Thror is barely responsive, says little as they attempt to find safety.

He knows his father is frustrated at the king’s behaviour. Thrain’s patience is tested upon being forced to make decisions without the help of his father. Their people beg and cry for answers, and Thorin is overwhelmed. He does not know the outcome of these events any better than they do. He understands though, they are the royal family. Dwarves have always relied on the royal family as a source for answers, a comfort that safety is near and prosperity is promised.

Thorin does not know where they should go. He and his father have agreed they must flee as far from Erebor as possible, to uncharted and unclaimed lands for their people. They must rebuild the lives they have lived for generations without the help of their king, whose eyes are empty, his heart no longer beating the same as it once was.

Women and children are patient with their hesitation, and Thorin is extremely glad for it. There’s one thing he will give their race credit, dwarves know how to live without many comforts. However, children are young, their bodies are weak and they cannot defend themselves. Thrain struggles for direction. 

Uncharted territory means dangers they have not faced, with accompanied children and women, they cannot afford to lead their people to danger. Thorin spots the mountains before his father, who agrees to search them and leave their people behind with Fundin and his most trusted friends. Upon returning, Thrain decides to make home in these shorter and smaller mountains. Miners and blacksmiths change their trades to builders, willingly beginning work if it means the safety of their families.

Thorin meets Dwalin when he returns, and convinces his friend to search the forests. They need to hunt to feed their people, Thrain eyes him worriedly at his suggestion and sends several other dwarves with them. Amongst the party of six dwarves, they hunt and kill enough meat to feed their people for the nights meal and the following day. Thrain hugs him close to his body upon returning, and Thorin clutches his father close, thankful he still stands alongside Thrain.

Temporary housing has been established for them, and Thrain tirelessly begins assorting jobs and errands to begin the new city. Thorin addresses each male dwarf for their name and their occupation, marital status and if they have reached fatherhood. Miners are assigned new work for the next day, evaluate the structural integrity of the mountainside to see if they can build inside, like Erebor.

Thorin sleeps none, tending to their people while his father, older, requires more rest. He shoos his father into the housing, resorting to begging his father to sleep, his eyes lingering on his grandfather’s form as a dwarf-maid struggles to make Thror eat. Thorin leaves the tent before she can acknowledge him. Frerin and Dís give him worried eyes before they begin their own duties.

He meets Dwalin at the main campsite, who is taking a break from working in the smithy, under strict instruction to repair any damaged armour and weaponry that he can. Dwalin is exhausted, Thorin can see the tiredness creeping into his friend’s eyes, he can only imagine he looks the same. Dwalin accompanies him as they scout the area, wandering around the skirts of the mountain and climbing the rock side until they reach the very top, looking down from here forces their new city to a much smaller scale.

Dawn falls upon the land and Dwalin lets out an impressed sound, pointing to the very top several metres away. Thorin raises his eyebrows, as the sun hits the rock face, the strange rock glows a vague blue in its light. The rock under them is strong, unlike any they’ve seen, durable, and can stand a lot of weight. Dwalin attempted some hours ago to split the rock, but it barely left a dint, but left Thrain satisfied with it’s durability. 

Thorin sits on the rock, sleep creeping its away to his eyes which droop in the warmth of the new sun. He pats the ground next to him and Dwalin sits close to him, leaning into his personal space. Thorin finds he cares little, and leans into Dwalin completely, releasing a long drawn out sigh as the comfort of Dwalin’s presence washes over him. Dwalin turns his head and rests it atop Thorin’s, who begins to doze despite their location. He feels the chuckle reverberate through his friend’s chest, and finds himself drawn to the sound.

“Dwalin,” Thorin says, breaking the silence although only whispering.

“Aye,” Dwalin responds, lifting his head and peering into Thorin’s face in question.

“Thank you.”

Dwalin frowns. “Wha’ for?”

Thorin shrugs and purses his lips. “Everything.” He meets Dwalin’s eyes slowly, who cups a hand to the back of his neck in comfort. Thorin drags in a deep breath and turns in Dwalin’s loose embrace.

Dwalin’s eyes flicker from his eyes down to his lips and back to his eyes. Thorin raises an eyebrow and gives the other dwarf a small smile, which turns into a broad one when Dwalin appears to get the message, pulling him close with the hand that has not left the back of his neck. He leans against Dwalin when their lips meet and releases a groan against his mouth. Dwalin holds him still, kissing him deeply and thoroughly, and Thorin becomes greedy, gripping Dwalin’s clothes in his fists tightly and brings them as close as they can.

He pulls away with a pant, his ablaze with lust and his cheeks stained a pink blush, but he leans forward and kisses Dwalin again who smiles against his lips and lets him. He snaps his eyes as shut as he can when he feels Dwalin’s arm curl around his waist. He knows they should head back, and so does Dwalin. They part and stand, and although they have lost their home to a dragon, Thorin feels like a love sick fool, but knows he’s gained a home with Dwalin also.

Thrain likes the idea of naming their home the Blue Mountains, and Thorin tries a lame smile when he asks why they were sitting so high on the top of the mountain to even notice the blue of the stone.

 

**Age 53**

Thror and Frerin are gone, and his heart races as his eyes search for Dwalin. He hears the roaring yell of his voice, “Thorin!” He feels the strong tattooed arms reach for him as he falls, eyes blinded by tears. His body racks with sobs, breath hitching as he struggles to pull himself together. Needy hands grab Dwalin’s face, forcing him forward, kissing him with a force he knows will bruise his lips. Dwalin kisses him back, tentative and unhurried.

“I saw it,” he whispers, “I saw him beheaded. I saw it.”

Dwalin cradles his neck with his palm, like he always does. “I know, Thorin. I’m sorry.”

“And Frerin, Dwalin. Frerin is dead too.”

Dwalin is silent for a few moments, and Thorin understands that Dwalin was not told of his brother’s death. Thorin’s heart breaks slowly in his chest at the vivid memory of his baby brother struck down, torso pierced by a sword thrust entirely through his body, leaving a gaping and fatal wound, left for dead.

Thorin remembers how he wrapped his arms around Frerin as he died, feeling the words stuck in his throat, the last breaths leave Frerin’s lungs. He feels vomit surge through his chest and turns abruptly in Dwalin’s arms, spewing bile and vomit next to him, narrowly avoiding hitting Dwalin.

Dwalin pulls his hair back and rubs his back, saying nothing, but Thorin is glad for it. The deaths of his kin run through his mind over and over, and Thorin is glad to see the faces of Balin and Fundin some meters behind them. Frerin’s body is moved, along with the king’s disembodied remains and placed in royal tombs. Thorin kisses his brother’s forehead before he is buried for good, but cannot bear to look at his grandfather’s broken body, the horror of the separation of head and body too traumatic for any of them to bear. Dis cries to the side.

Thrain is speechless, silent tears fall from his eyes as he stares into the distance. Later and in his chambers, he sobs in Thorin’s arms, and Thorin struggles to hold back his own grief. He knows his father must ride with their cousins from the Grey Mountains, in an attempt to reclaim Erebor. Thrain asks for their privacy, and Dis scowls as she is too dismissed. 

Alone, Thrain places the crown on the table. Thorin studies it for some time and meets his father’s eyes after a long moment. Thrain stares at him, unblinking, waiting for his son to take in the unspoken words his actions are enforcing.

“No, father,” Thorin whispers, disbelief tinting his voice.

Thrain bites his lips and attempts a smile, though it fails. “I ride to Erebor. This quest could kill me, Thorin, let us be realistic. If I do not return, or you do not hear word from me in seven days, you become king of our people.”

Thorin releases an angry breath, and clasps his hands together. He looks at his father, lost for words and snatches a glass that is full of water and throws it against the wall. The glass shattered to smithereens, water making a dark stain in the red carpet. Thrain responds little, only blinking slowly.

“Why are you doing this to me? Giving up? I suffer grief now, also, father!” Thorin yells, angry tears filling his eyes. “I loved them too, you understand. You cannot leave me by myself! How can I be a king when I don’t know how to be one!”

Thrain steps forward at that, and kisses his son’s forehead. “You will be a better king than my father or I could hope to be. We now have the opportunity to reclaim Erebor. I must take it.”

When Thrain leaves he commands Dwalin’s company. And when Dwalin arrives, Thorin is needy and wanting. He kisses Dwalin forcefully, pushing him to the bed and landing on top of him, he senses Dwalin’s hesitancy, he has not approached Dwalin with the attempt of sex. He has kissed Dwalin since their first arrival at the Blue Mountains, fleeting and chaste, never taking more. Now, he wants the comfort only Dwalin can provide him, but he wants Dwalin to want him too.

He pulls back and stares down at Dwalin, whose expression is unsure and confused, hands lingering on his waist. Dwalin opens his mouth to speak, and Thorin presses a ringed finger to his mouth.

“Please,” Thorin begs, voice low. “I need you. I need you close. Only you.”

Dwalin purses his lips. “Thorin, ye upset. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of ya, now.”

“You are not taking advantage of me. I know what I want. I know what I have wanted for a long time. I need you, Dwalin, please.” Thorin kisses Dwalin again, this time slow and easily, and groans loudly when Dwalin wraps his arms around his back. The comfort of Dwalin seeps into his muscles, Dwalin’s bulk makes him feel safe and secure, unlike anything in his life. He lays his entire weight on Dwalin’s chest and breaks the kiss when Dwalin turns them to their side.

“We aren’t goin’ to have sex, now, Thorin,” Dwalin says, kissing him quickly to stop any protests. “Let us sleep, and maybe we will tomorrow, aye.”

Thorin lays still when Dwalin strips him to his underclothes and towels his limbs, wiping away dirt, orc and his brother’s blood. He sighs in content when Dwalin cuddles him to his chest, and rests his head in the nook of Dwalin’s neck. The battle scene runs through his mind, biting his lip to stop the tears, but fails. Dwalin rubs his back carefully as he grieves, pressing tender kisses to his forehead and temple, waiting for Thorin to fall asleep.

 

**Age 89**

Dwalin struggles under Thorin’s weight, stumbling around messily as the king wraps his body around him. He feels the desperate clutch of Thorin’s hands at his neck and shoulders, his legs wound tightly around his waist. His chest rumbles with laughter when Balin makes a tutting sound at Thorin’s antics.

Thorin releases him after some time, eyes shining with tears, and Dwalin’s heart clenches in his chest. He has missed Thorin more than words could ever describe. He reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair from his face and kisses his cheek quickly. Thorin clutches at his bicep as he returns to Dwalin’s side, stealing glances whenever he can. Dwalin turns and kisses Thorin’s temple when they are no longer the centre of attention.

Being the King allows them to dine alone, without the company of others. Thorin leads Dwalin to his chambers, tugging on his arm the entire time. 

Upon reaching the chamber, Dwalin sheds his heavy overcoats and drapes them over the plush couches in the sitting area. The room is quite warm, the fireplace is comforting and before he’s even started the evening he feels his eyelids droop from the warmth.

Thorin seems to understand this, but makes him eat some food anyway. He smiles at his lover when Thorin runs a hand over the balding sides of his head, cupping his hands alongside the mohawk in the centre. Calloused yet nimble fingers caress his face gently, thumbs running over his cheekbones and settling on his neck. Thorin leans forward and kisses him then, lips soft and gentle. Dwalin releases a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding through his nose and moves to clutch at Thorin’s hip, dragging him close.

“Let us lay down,” Thorin suggests, kissing him again. “You must be tired. The ride from Moria is long.”

Dwalin nods and follows Thorin to the bedroom. He watches with an appreciative smirk when Thorin undresses, and hurries to do the same. Thorin climbs in the bed and flips the sheet and blanket over so Dwalin can join him. 

“Comin’ from Moria, the Blue Mountains is actually quite hard to see in the night,” Dwalin comments, “nearly rode right past it! Somethin’ you’d do, aye?”

Thorin sits and punches his chest lightly at the insult while regarding him with narrowed eyes. “Shut up. My lack of direction is not that bad.”

Dwalin raises his eyebrows and reaches for Thorin, pulling him down and half laying on top of him. Thorin settles happily against his bare chest, lifting his chin to kiss Dwalin deeply, cupping his cheek. Dwalin smiles at his king, petting his braids that have not changed since childhood. Thorin hums and his eyes close, a single finger traces his newest tattoos that run along his chest, long healed. He dips his head and presses a kiss to the rune that stains the skin above his heart. A simple tattoo, a singular letter of ‘T’. It bears no hidden meaning, he has it tattooed for Thorin.

“I love you,” Thorin says, and rests his cheek against it, as he always does.

“And I love you,” Dwalin responds, kissing Thorin’s temple. Normally, he would’ve attempted to have sex with Thorin, something he has missed dearly in their separation, but falls asleep before he can even try.

 

**Age 138**

Dwalin has heard of the magic that taints the elvish waters. He has heard the stories and tales that say an elf in white can show you the past, the future and the present. Dwalin is smart, he knows there must be some truth to these words. Rumours are the downfall that separates their races, elves believe what they wish and dwarves the same. Be that as it may, they visit the Lady of the Woods under strict instruction of Gandalf.

The woods make Dwalin and Thorin anxious, their company of six other dwarves grow confused with their surroundings as they wander further into the forests. Their elf escort eyes them with suspicious eyes and Thorin sneers at him, distaste flickering across his face even as they are approached by the lady elf. She dips her head in acknowledgement, and beckons Thorin to peer into the well.

Dwalin remains calm, though enterally distressed as Thorin’s eyes grow wide with fear and despair as he peers down into the magic waters. The dwarf-king braces his arms against the basin of the silver bowl, unblinking as whatever flickers over the water’s surface roots him to the spot. Dwalin fidgets at Thorin’s struggle, a millisecond away from shouting at Galadriel to stop.

 

_The sight that greets him is eerie. He does not understand at first where he is, but sure enough he begins to realise the Elf is showing him his future, or the future of a loved one. The lore that surrounds the houses of the dead comes to mind, the long and dark corridors strike fear in his heart. He walks on, unsure of his destination, looking for someone else, anyone else._

_“Thorin!”_

_Thorin stops dead, heart thudding loudly in his chest. The voice he hasn’t heard for so many years, easily recognisable even after so long brings tears to his eyes. He turns sharply, and is greeted by the sight of Frerin._

_His brother has not aged a day, his face unmarked and youthful, his braids neat and clean. He stands several feet away from him with his arms spread. Thorin does not understand what is happening, yet steps forward to approach his brother._

_He touches Frerin’s chest delicately and feels the firmness of a real body, his eyes widening in shock._

_“F-Frenin… how? Where are you? Where are… we?”_

 

Thorin’s company grow alarmed when they become aware of their king’s distress. Thorin is as pale as death itself, tears falling from his face and running down his gaunt cheeks. Dwalin’s attention is stolen by Thranduil, the elf-king, who calls out to Thorin, who pays him no heed. The dwarf-king is unresponsive, even more so when the water returns to its usual state.

Dwalin stands and moves quickly, ignoring the quirk of Thranduil’s eyebrow. He crouches on one knee in Thorin’s line of sight and catches the dwarf-king in his arms when Thorin stumbles backwards. 

“ _Enough, she-elf!_ ” Dwalin barks in Dwarvish knowing she understands their native tongue, and curls an arm around Thorin who turns in his embrace, pressing his wet face against Dwalin’s neck. He rubs Thorin’s back comfortingly as he sobs, shoulders trembling as he hiccups. He reaches up to cup the back of Thorin’s head and presses a kiss to his temple.

“ _Why are you doing this?_ ” He asks Galadriel snappishly. Her expression remains the same, though he sees some amusement flicker in her eyes. Dwalin feels the scowl cross his face before he can stop it. He blinks slowly when Thorin shuffles closer to him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other buried in his tunics, latching on desperately.

“ _He must see the truth,_ ” she responds in his native tongue, the deep words sounding odd coming from her mouth. She waves her hand. “ _He needs the comforts of those lost_.”

Throin’s condition remains unchanged as Dwalin ponders over his words, falling back into English. “What did you show him?”

All eyes in the room fall on Galadriel who steps down from her pedestal and moves gracefully around the room and toward them. Thorin’s breath hitches, a look of pained hurt makes its way to his face and turns his face away from her, resting his head on Dwalin’s shoulder. Dwalin continues to rub the dwarf-king’s back, attempting to comfort him, ignoring the looks from the other elves. Thorin grows hysterical in Dwalin’s arms, becoming increasingly unaware of his surroundings as he kisses Dwalin’s cheek and searches his face for comfort.

“I showed him the truth,” Galadriel replies slowly, “I showed him what he needed to see.”

“We mean you no harm,” Dwalin says defensively, wrapping an arm more firmly around Thorin’s torso. She walks down the steps so that she is in front of him. By habit, Dwalin turns and uses his own body to shield Thorin’s, and she tilts her head at his actions, but says nothing. “We take our leave.” Thorin sags in his arms.  
 __

_Thorin walks alongside Frerin, a hand wound tightly around his brother’s bicep, as though afraid he will spontaneously disappear. Frerin says nothing about it, but continues to chatter on happily about Thorin’s adventures, the wizard’s ideas on the reclaiming of Erebor, the lost love of his own life, talking of Dis and newborn sons, Fili and KIli._

_He listens to his brother’s words, though pays little attention to the specifics, too shocked and relieved at the sight of him. He has missed Frerin terribly, everyday he thought of his brother’s dying body on the dark and dirty lands that took him._

_Frerin stops walking and talking simultaneously, looking out and far ahead of them. Thorin looks at his brother in question, and follows his line of sight. He drops his hand from his brother’s arm when he sees the other dwarf across the hall._

_Father. He turns back to Frerin who touches his cheek softly and offers him a small smile. He looks back to Thrain._

_Thorin’s eyes burn at the sight. He starts to run, running faster and quicker than he ever has, lungs screaming in his chest at the strain. He cares not when his father is so close. He stops a foot in front of Thrain, reaching out tentatively._

 

Galadriel leaves and a silence falls over the room. Thorin’s condition has worsened, and he cries silently against Dwalin’s shoulder. Dwalin crouches and hooks an arm behind Thorin’s knee and lifts, carrying him back to their ponies like he would a newlywed lass. Thorin groans as Dwalin forces him onto the pony. Dwalin is surprised when Thorin bends and kisses him, messy and face wet, and Dwalin touches Thorin’s face carefully, comfortingly.

Dwalin knows he cannot ride by himself, and adjusts them around. Dwalin sits in front, with Thorin sitting behind him, arms wound tightly around his waist. He can feel the entire front of Thorin’s body plastered to his back, holding onto him desperately, as if he was going to disappear. He feels the harsh uneven breaths against his back so he squeezes a hand around Thorin’s, that rest on his stomach.

Thorin cries helplessly against him, needy and helpless and Dwalin hates it. He doesn’t understand exactly what Thorin has seen to cause him such grief and distress, but knows now, any alliance with elves is long gone. Thorin will never forgive the race for this experience, wood elves or stone elves regardless. 

“I saw them, Dwalin,” Thorin murmurs against the back of his neck. “My kin. Grandfather, dad… Frerin…”

Dwalin halts the pony in his shock. “… what? How?”

Thorin hugs him closer, almost crushing Dwalin to himself. “I don’t know. But they were there. They were real. I could reach for them. And hold them.”

“Wha’ did they say? Could ya speak to ‘em?”

“They told me they were proud of me,” Thorin whispers, and Dwalin closes his eyes at the broken tone in Thorin’s voice. The despair that lingers on the words, the tears that begin to spill as Thorin speaks.

 

_“I’m so proud of you,” Thrain says, pulling Thorin forward into a tight hug. Thorin bites his lip as he tries to control himself, tears welling in his eyes quickly as he sags in his father’s grip. Thrain shifts and moves with him, kneeling in front of Thorin, who has not released him. Thorin feels like a lad again, crying on the shoulder of his father, but he cannot stop the grief coiling in his gut._

_Thrain rocks him as he cries, rubbing his shoulders. He presses a kiss to the crown of Thorin’s head who releases a choked howl of distress against his father’s chest, rattled with heaving breaths._

_“You’ve made me so proud, Thorin.” Thrain pulls his son’s face away from his chest to peer down into his face, a smile tugging at his lips._

_“I am sorry, father,” Thorin whispers, hands clenching in Thrain’s robes. “I did not know. If I had’ve known, I would have searched for you.”_

_Thrain gives a small shrug, knowing Thorin is referring to his capture by the necromancer. He rubs the back of his hand against Thorin’s cheek, wiping the tears off the pale cheeks. “I have died in peace. I am not the dwarf I was, thank Mahal above.”*_

_Thorin tenses when he feels another hand touching his shoulder. He looks up and sees Thror and his grandfather smiles down at him. It is a small smile, but a smile nonetheless, and a smile that has not graced Thror’s face for so long. Thorin hiccups loudly at the sight, reminding him of his younger days, when Thror was himself, mind clear of greed and of gold and Thorin relishes the expression more than anything in his life._

 

As they travel back to their home, Thorin seems to recover somewhat from the experience, accepts the food Dwalin gives him gratefully, and offers to sit in front of the pony so Dwalin can rest. He knows Thorin can ride his own pony now, and something warm blossoms in his chest when he doesn’t. They ride on, stopping little. Although the experience at the time seemed traumatic, as possibly always will be, Thorin tells Dwalin he will take it and make it positive, though seeing and speaking with his kin reinforces how much he misses them.

He leans forward and kisses Thorin’s cheek, who leans back to him, eyes closed contently. Thorin turns his head and kisses Dwalin on the lips, closed-mouth yet lingering. Thorin pulls back but leans forward and plants chaste kisses again and again, a wordless thank you for his support. Dwalin rests his head on Thorin’s shoulder and sleeps.

 

**Age 195**

_“It is time. We meet in the Shire, Bag End. Home of Bilbo Baggins. I need you there.”_

Thorin regards Gandalf’s suggestion to accept Bilbo’s hospitality with an air of hesitancy, but knows they must repack, eat and bathe, and gather enough strength to even think of beginning their journey. The other dwarves have travelled long and hard to make it to the Shire and Dwalin knows he and Thorin could travel for several more days without the need to stop, but they are a company made up of eleven other dwarves and a hobbit who has never left his own country. 

Bilbo’s house is quite nice, Dwalin decides, though the rounded entrances are unpractical and make the general strength of the house itself low. He notices the smaller details of the house, silly trinkets and collectables, picking up each one and examining them. He sees Bilbo eyeing each of them warily, worried they will pocket his valuables. Dwalin doesn’t blame him in the slightest.

“Hobbits are not warriors, Dwalin,” Thorin says, joining him, pressing a hand against the middle of Dwalin’s back. “They are a carefree race. They enjoy their comforts.”

“Bit silly, tha’. What if they get raided or somethin’?” Dwalin asks, following Thorin’s lead out of the front door to smoke their pipes, despite Bilbo allowing them to do so inside with the windows open. Thorin gives him a skeptical look, smiling. “… and who would raid a hobbit’s home, Dwalin?” Thorin asks, amused.

Dwalin shrugs. “I don’ know, orcs or somethin’. They have alotta wealth in their homes surprisingly enough.” He pulls his pipe from his undercoat, and Thorin hands him some pipe weed. He takes it gratefully and sits on a bench situated several feet from the front door.

“It is a nice place, the Shire,” Thorin comments, and rests his hand atop Dwalin’s thigh, and kisses him quickly, leaning back against the seat. He sighs deeply, crossing his leg over the other, ankle resting on his kneecap. Dwalin raises an eyebrow at Thorin’s relaxed state, unusual in such a foreign place. He inhales and hands the pipe to his king, who takes it from him without looking, too focused on the hills that home the hobbits. “Aye, it is.”

Thorin leans his head against Dwalin’s shoulder and links their hands together. Dwalin chuckles at their behaviour, young and carefree, unlike their usual selves, about to embark on a dangerous quest that could easily kill one or both of them. His heart clenches at the thought, and squeezes Thorin’s hand without realising it. He and Thorin have been separated for little over two months, though a usual occurrence, it still makes him agitated and easily annoyed when his lover is not around. Moria is dark and lonely, the depth of it almost scary, walls so high he feels lost as soon as he steps foot inside.

“Did ya get lost on your way?” Dwalin asks, with a coy smile.

Thorin lifts his head and tuts at him, shaking his head slightly. “No.”

Dwalin says nothing, knowing Thorin is fibbing and waits for his king to admit it. Making fun of Thorin’s lack of direction is something Dwalin enjoys immensely, all in good fun, though Thorin would disagree. The silence lasts for several minutes and when Dwalin looks at his king out of the corner of his eye, he sees the corners of Thorin’s lips twitching.

Thorin caves with a smirk. “Maybe.”

Dwalin bites back a laugh and releases Thorin’s hand to rest his against the seat, knowing Thorin will move closer to him, and curls an arm around his shoulders when Thorin does. “Jus’ maybe?”

“Alright, Dwalin. I got lost. Twice,” Thorin admits, leaning forward and back as he laughs. Dwalin chortles, pinching his pipe out of Thorin’s hand and raising it back to his lip. “If it wasn’t for the bloody rune on the door, you’d have to come and find me.” Thorin pokes his tongue between his teeth as he laughs, and Dwalin relishes the sound.

“Like all the other times?” Dwalin asks, baiting Thorin who sighs and purses his lips, though the laughter still lingers in his eyes.

“Well, what can I say, Dwalin. You’re my knight in shining armour, aren’t you?”

“It appears to be tha’ way,” Dwalin responds, feeling rather content with himself and the conversation as a whole. He rolls his shoulders, and cracks his neck, barking out a loud laugh when Nori sticks his head out of the front door and calls out, “Stop deflowering the King, Dwalin!” He hears the loud bellowing of Bofur’s laugh reverberating through the small house, and Dori’s attempts to silence them so they do not upset the neighbours. 

Thorin’s head snaps in Nori’s direction, who hurries back inside quicker than Dwalin can blink. The king shakes his head at the thief’s antics with a small smile and a murmured, “fucking idiot.” Dwalin presses a kiss to Thorin’s cheek, smiling when Thorin turns his head and catches his lips. “Well, that’s long gone, aye,” he murmurs to Thorin’s lips, who chuckles softly, deepening their kiss with a soft groan.

“E-Excuse me,” comes Ori’s timid voice, and Dwalin nearly jumps out of his own skin in shock, tearing his face away from the king’s, Thorin looking equally as alarmed at being snuck up on.

“Yes, Ori?” Thorin asks gruffly, and Dwalin can see Ori flinch at his tone. He rests a palm on Thorin’s shoulder, who glances at him and schools his expression to a more pleasant one.

“Gandalf would like you to join him inside,” Ori finishes and practically runs away. He gives Thorin an exasperated look who feigns innocence, and offers his king a hand, which Thorin takes and they walk back inside. Other dwarves who have scattered around the house make their way back to the dining area, awaiting Gandalf’s plans of where to begin.

Gandalf explains that he himself cannot read the secrets of the map, and Thorin catches Dwalin’s eye, and mouths “elves,” with a disturbed expression. After their meeting, Dwalin begins to explain to Fili and Kili, now adult dwarves, young though fully grown, the secrets to Dwarvish entrances, and how they work, with them being invisible.

Thorin sits by his side, nodding or correcting when Dwalin is unsure of the smaller details, Fili and Kili’s eyes growing as round as dinner plates in astonishment, asking Thorin why they do not have these ‘cool’ doors in Ered Luin.

“They took generations of the Durin family to build,” Thorin says, “that type of architecture is way beyond the skill level of any dwarf I know.”

Dwalin nods, and Fili and Kili seem satisfied with the response.

Thorin continues, “they were annoying, anyway. Sure, they hide away the secrets of our people, but learning Sindarin to open a door is simply unnecessary.”

“What is Sindarin, majesty?” Ori asks from across the table, suddenly joining their conversation with piqued interest.

Thorin grimaces. “It is the oldest language of the Elves, honouring the alliance between our races from long ago.”

Fili, Kili and Ori perk up at this new information, fascinated that Thorin can speak another language, especially one like Elvish. Dwalin smirks at their childish excitement but understands, dwarves speak their own language and English, never bothering to learn any others.

“Are you fluent, Uncle?”

“Do you enjoy speaking another language?”

“Uncle, please say something!”

Thorin sighs at their requests and turns his head to Dwalin for support, who smirks and raises an eyebrow, expecting the questions to be answered. Thorin pulls an unimpressed face at him and hums.

“Yes, I can speak Sindarin fluently. Yes, Fili, I know what you are thinking, and yes, I can eavesdrop on Elvish conversation. And yes, I do. It matters little to me that I can speak it, Ori. Now, I will say one sentence and that is it, understand?”

They nod and Dwalin crosses his arms over his chest.

“ _Auta a’ rath. Amin um lemb lle ruquern manka lee fain il._ ” The words fall from his lover’s mouth with ease, a practised tongue, but Dwalin cannot help but scrunch his nose up, the words are soft whereas Khuzdul is deep and comes from the diaphragm. The other three remain gobsmacked, and await translation but Thorin gives a small smile and stays quiet.

Gandalf leans over and says, “I assume you would like a translation, young dwarves.” They voice their agreement loudly, and Gandalf takes a long drag off his pipe before answering, “Go to bed, I will leave you behind if you do not.”

They do, but do not shut up about Thorin’s ‘hidden skill’ for the next two days. Damn young dwarves and their curiosity! But Dwalin cannot help but think of himself and Thorin when they were younger, asking too many questions, walking down paths they shouldn’t, spying on Thrain’s generals and their sons, pinching food from the marketplaces with curious hands. Dwalin presses a kiss to Thorin’s lips when they lay down for sleep who smiles up at him lazily, wishing him goodnight in Khuzdul with a wink.

Dwalin heaves a sigh as they set out from the Shire, hoping that possibly, maybe… Smaug _might_ leave by himself.

-fin

 

*

In this fic, I’ve made Dwalin a few years older than Thorin. Just seems to fit easier when writing fiction.  
*Let’s just say Thorin knows Thrain’s demise. (Cannot wait to see Thorin’s reaction in the film!)  
Changed a few things around to fit some romance in there, you know how it is.


End file.
